


Crowley and the No-Good, Awful, Horrible, Terrible (But Not Really) Decade

by james



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, domesticity of the angelic and demonic sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: Crowley wakes up feeling very hungover and he tries to piece together just what happened.  Aziraphale brings him tea.





	Crowley and the No-Good, Awful, Horrible, Terrible (But Not Really) Decade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alltoseek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/gifts).



> This is set sort of after the book, kind of modern-day slightly in the future.

Crowley woke slowly and painfully. He could feel every molecule in his bodily form aching – was this a hangover? Had he been run over by a tank? What the everloving fuck had happened? He lay as still as he could while he cursed the very notion of physical forms and waited for memory to catch up. 

What the hol- er, unholy Hells had he done last night? He couldn't remember, could barely remember his name, and all he could do was hope that the party, world war, or whatever it was, had been worth it.

He heard the chink of ceramic which his brain instantly identified as tea. He cracked open one eye and wondered who or what liked him enough to bring him tea following whatever catastrophe had got him into this state.

Aziraphale's serene-looking face came into view, which Crowley realised was because the angel had crouched down and twisted sideways enough to shove his face close to the pillow Crowley was trying to suffocate himself with. If he breathed. Did he need to breathe? He couldn't remember.

"Wha--" he managed, and Aziraphale held out a cup of tea. 

Of course the angel held it out far away enough that Crowley had to _sit up_ to reach the tea, and when Crowley complained, Aziraphale just said calmly, "You can't drink it in that position, you'll pour it all over the mattress."

"Watch me," Crowley said, but he got his hands under him and shoved, rolled, and flopped around until he was vaguely right-side up and vaguely upright and Aziraphale finally handed him the tea. Crowley sipped it and felt his neurons actually begin to fire. Lovely, wonderful, amazing stuff, tea, and he knew that he ought to feel bad for taking such pleasure in something that Hell had never truly managed to corrupt. He sighed, trying to remember if this was what bliss was like. 

After a moment he saw Aziraphale's hand coming towards his cup. He clenched his claws around it and hissed.

The angel rolled his eyes in a rather non-angelic fashion. "It's empty, I thought you might like a second."

Blinking down at his cup, Crowley saw that he had indeed managed to finish it. "Er, right. Sorry." He held out the cup, but as Aziraphale took it away, Crowley shoved himself out of bed and stumbled after him, out of the bedroom and into the living area. That was where his brain caught up with him. "What the fuck are you doing in my flat?" He looked around, saw with shuddering horror that someone had _tidied_ while he'd been unconscious. Dear Chr-- Fucking Hell, were his CDs in alphabetical order?

There was _no dust_ on the bookcases. 

How long had he been passed out? 

"How long have I been passed out?" Crowley asked, because surely the angel hadn't gotten that bored in a single morning? Unless he'd done a small miracle on Crowley's flat and cleaned it in an instant, but...surely he wouldn't have bothered doing that, when he could barely be bothered to use it on his own domicile. Crowley had seen the angel vacuuming, for Hell's sake, and whistling while he did so like he was enjoying it.

Aziraphale came out of the kitchen, carrying a second cup of tea, which Crowley took and inhaled a bit more slowly this time. He was afraid to look in the kitchen, to see what sort of cleaning had gone on in there. What if the angel had cleaned out the fridge? How was Crowley supposed to justify going out for fish and chips if his fridge could keep food fresh and sanitary?

He realised Aziraphale was just standing there, looking at him – the expression on his face made Crowley think the angel wanted to be extremely judgmental at him but was holding back for some reason. 

Just how drunk had he got last night – and more importantly, why? That bit he still couldn't remember.

"Six years," Aziraphale said, sighing a bit and dropping his arms from the crossed, you're-going-to-get-it position.

"Six years what?" Crowley asked. "What about last ni-- Wait."

He remembered going to bed. He remembered flinging himself into his bed, distraught and frustrated and totally, completely, fed up. He'd been saying he couldn't deal with it anymore, he was going to sleep through the rest of the decade. Crowley blinked. "I've been asleep for six years?"

"Give or take a month, yes." Aziraphale shrugged one shoulder at him, like he didn't really care one way or the other.

"Huh." Crowley rubbed at his chin. No beard, because of course he didn't grow one unless he felt like it. Apparently he hadn't felt like it while he'd been sleeping out the remainder of the worst decade he'd had to cope with since the 1490s. "Please tell me it's safe to be awake now, and you haven't woken me early." 

Aziraphale reached over and patted his arm. Crowley's skin tingled just a bit where the angel's fingers brushed past the sleeve of his nightshirt. Huh. He'd worn a nightshirt to bed? No, he clearly remembered he hadn't. He'd ripped off every piece of clothing he'd been wearing, set it on fire, and flung himself to bed naked. 

He narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. 

"It's safe, yes," the angel said, unaware of Crowley's annoyance at being miracled into proper sleeping clothes. Or possibly he knew and didn't care.

"Those horrible hats are gone?"

"The hats are gone, the whole thing died down last winter. It's safe to come out now." Aziraphale's tone was a mix of sympathy and mocking, both of which Crowley could deal with. 

"Thank Hea-- thank fuck, they're gone," Crowley threw himself back onto the sofa – and it didn't smell of dust or mold and there was no cascade of discarded mail falling to the floor. He squeezed his eyes closed, waited a second for this to all be a bad dream, then opened them again. Aziraphale was still standing there in Crowley's overly-clean flat, watching him calmly. Crowley glared at him. "Fashion is the worst thing humans have ever invented," he stated flatly. "Normally I don't mind a bit of bondage; the wrist cuffs I could have dealt with. But those _fucking hats._ " Crowley shuddered and tried to rip the memory of them from his mind.

"If you didn't insist on being fashionable, it wouldn't have been a problem," Aziraphale said primly, and there it was, the creeping edge of holier-than-thou judgment.

Crowley sneered at him. "Just because you could care less what you look like; you've been wearing the same cardigan for 97 years." He waved a hand at the angel. "You'll keep wearing it for another 97 unless I get my hands on the fashion industry again and make them the height of proper gentleman's fashion." He gave the angel a smile, but Aziraphale didn't appear fazed by the threat.

Crowley clapped his hands together. "So! A bit of breakfast, and then-- Godfuckingdammit!"

Aziraphale looked startled, and his mouth opened, possibly to chastise Crowley for his language or something ridiculous, but Crowley was on his feet and over to the desk. His clean, tidy, easy to find things on desk. Right in the middle was a folder with a stamp on it which he recognised.

"Six years, fuck me, I'm late with my reports." Five and a half years late, to be precise. He'd been late before, of course – who wasn't? Demons were evil, being late with reports was practically required. Leave it to Hell not to see it that way, and the last time Crowley had been late with his status reports they'd told him he would be demoted, down back to Hell for a few centuries filing everyone else's field reports. In proper, alphabetical order.

He could feel his heart beating and he tried to squash down the panic. Why had Aziraphale let him sleep so long? Why hadn't-- He whirled on the angel. "Don't you realise what this means?"

"Calm down, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "I took care of them."

His heart stopped. "You took care of them?"

Aziraphale looked a little uncomfortable, but he shrugged and crouched down to pick up the teacup Crowley had dropped. He carried the cup into the kitchen then came back out with a towel, then began patting at the carpet to clean the spilt tea. 

"Fucking Hell, Angel, you took care of them? Those things get read by half a dozen bureaucrats, they return them for typos and _kerning errors_ and, well, no you probably didn't have any typos, but they're going to--"

Aziraphale stood up and looked him in the eye, calm and unruffled. "Crowley. I took care of it. I filled out your reports with all the things you've done in the last ten years, used all the current and proper forms, and made sure the margins were exactly correct and no, there were no typos. Your supervisor was rather impressed and accused you of paying someone to do them for you except--" He paused, then continued, sounding ever so slightly smug, "Except he said your handwriting couldn't possibly be faked that well."

"You--" Crowley's head buzzed. Maybe he had been drunk, and still was. Maybe it had only been one night and the angel was having him on. If he walked outside and men were wearing those _stupid hats_ then he was coming back up here, killing Aziraphale, then going back to bed.

Aziraphale glanced down at the tea stain and sighed, but instead of getting rid of it he just took the towel back to the kitchen and came out with a clean towel and a bottle of club soda, and knelt down again. Where the Hell had he gotten the club soda, Crowley wanted to know. If he was miracling things in the kitchen, why not just get rid of the stain, Crowley wanted to ask him.

"They won't be happy I didn't do anything the last six years," Crowley mused, but he didn't care. He risked going over to the folder and found that it was not full of blank forms and scathing demands for doing his paperwork as he'd feared, but was instead a set of photocopies of reports he hadn't actually filled out. The pages were in his abysmal scrawl, and detailed all the Evil he'd done or encouraged, including the bits about not tipping the baristas when he changed his order three times before declaring they'd got it right finally.

He flipped to the last page, and blinked.

"It says here--"

"Yes, Crowley," Aziraphale said, sounding embarrassed.

"That I brought about the downfall of a beloved fashion icon." Crowley tried to read, but honestly he could barely make out his own handwriting when it really had been him writing it. "A man who had fulfilled his dream of designing hatwear, had become rich and famous and well-loved by the fashion-mad populace, lost his fortune to gambling debts and last winter became a recluse where he now plays solitaire chess on a tablet and takes long walks in the woods and talks to squirrels?"

"I left out the part where he really is happier," Aziraphale said. "The noise and stress was making him mad; the money he lost went to a gambler who donated it all to orphanages and soup kitchens."

Crowley stared at him. "It says here I got a commendation. I guess Hell didn't like those hats either," he mused.

"Yes, well," Aziraphale stood again, and Crowley could see the stain was still quite visible, and he wondered how long it would take for the angel to get rid of it. Probably wait until he thought Crowley wasn't looking.

"I... thanks," Crowley managed. He knew – this was what the Arrangement was about, after all – or had been, before the coming of the Devil's Son and the failure of that entire apocalypse to happen. Things had gone back to normal, and they had sort of...never renegotiated the terms of the Arrangement.

Except for one very important part, which hadn't required much negotiation at all. Crowley smiled and stepped forward, catching up Aziraphale's hand. The angel looked at him with an amused expression as Crowley leaned in and kissed him.

"I owe you a bit of thanks, then," Crowley said, and parts of his body reminded him that physical forms could be rather nice indeed.

Aziraphale stepped away, but didn't let go of his hand. But he said, "You owe me a massage."

"A.. yeah, okay," Crowley could work with that, absolutely.

"A _proper_ massage," Aziraphale said sternly and Crowley's heart sank a bit. He glowered down at his cock. It wasn't like he minded getting his hands all over Aziraphale, and yes, okay, he did owe the angel quite a favor. But a proper massage could take two hours and involved preening wings and didn't involve anybody having orgasms in the slightest.

Crowley didn't hesitate when Aziraphale pulled at his hand, though.

"Did you really let me sleep for six years?" he asked, because that seemed like an awfully long time for the angel to leave him alone. 

Aziraphale smiled. "Six months."

Gaping, Crowley laughed. "You _lied?_ Angel! Do I get to put that in my next report? Made an angel tell lies?" He leaned forward, catching Aziraphale up, and kissed his shoulder. The wool of the cardigan reminded him that he needed to get the angel out of his clothes immediately. Sooner.

Aziraphale sighed. "No. I tried putting that in the first version of the report, and it got returned. Your supervisor said that corrupting me doesn't count."

Crowley froze in place. "He said what?"

"I don't get to use you, either, in my reports." Aziraphale moved again, trying to pull Crowley towards the bed, but Crowley stood in place.

"Are you telling me that--"

"They know. Perfectly well what we're up to." Aziraphale didn't seem bothered by it – which surely meant that he'd been corrupted sufficiently by Crowley to not care about being as pure and Good as an angel was supposed to be.

Crowley had no idea what to do with that information.

Aziraphale apparently did, as he turned, still holding Crowley's hand, and looked at him. "Massage, Crowley," he said sternly, and suddenly the angel's clothes were gone. His wings unfolded and Aziraphale shook them out a bit.

"Yes," Crowley managed, feeling like maybe he was going to swallow his tongue. Centuries he'd dreamed about getting to do this, and now – Now he still didn't get to, not yet, because he had a massage to give and then Aziraphale would probably fall asleep, and Crowley would have to get on with making his flat properly lived in and cluttered so he didn't get creeped out by his own flat. 

Tonight, though, maybe after a nice dinner – delivered, clean fridge or no he wasn't cooking. He waited as Aziraphale climbed onto the bed and laid down on his stomach, then Crowley carefully settled himself astride Aziraphale's ass, and wasn't that the best bit of the angel's torture right there. Crowley leaned forward and began to rub his shoulders, and told his cock that waiting was a vice.

His cock didn't believe him, but Crowley rubbed at Aziraphale's shoulders anyway, firmly and deeply, and soon enough he heard a very contented sigh.

 _That_ was not going into his next report, that was for sure.


End file.
